Second Death
by Avorsum
Summary: Rimmer's week begins rather badly when he dies and is resurrected as a hologram... again. Unfortunately as the week progresses this turns out to be the least of his worries... Set during series VIII, after Pete.


A/N: Welcome to my second fanfic, and also to my first attempt at writing Red Dwarf. All reviews will be greatly appreciated. If you don't like it, please feel free to say so; I don't mind how harsh you are, as long as you've got something constructive to say. Although please note that flames will be given to Mr. Flibble so he can satisfy his pyromaniac urges.

This is set somewhere between Pete and Only the Good, so I suppose Rimmer's death makes this slightly AU (unless he's somehow revived afterwards... like all stories I come up with at 3 in the morning (in other words, all of them), I've no idea how it's going to end yet).

Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf. If I did, I probably wouldn't be here writing this. And I'd probably also be considerably richer.

Anyway, on with the story.

Enjoy...

Chapter 1

The door stood partway along a corridor in the officer's block of the prison on floor 13. Captain Hollister looked at it for a moment, along with the name stencilled across it in black letters, before knocking smartly.

"Come in," said a voice from the other side.

The door slid open noiselessly and Hollister stepped into the room. The door closed again behind him.

Ackerman's office was smaller than his own, and more sparsely decorated. The man himself, who was stood behind the desk, smiled at Hollister as he entered.

"Ah, captain. You wanted to see me?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes actually, I did," replied Hollister. He seemed somewhat agitated. "According to sensors we still have a baby T-Rex running around the cargo decks. I want to know what efforts you've made to try and get rid of it."

"I thought you'd ask that, sir. In fact I despatched the canaries on a mission to eliminate it only this morning."

"And?"

"Well, err…" Ackerman faltered for a second. "I've prepared a status report on the mission, actually. When I heard you wanted to see me I assumed you'd want to look at it, sir." He sat down at his desk, removed a brown folder from a drawer, and passed it to Hollister, who sat down opposite him.

"What I mean is, did you succeed?" Hollister pressed, somewhat impatiently.

"It's all in the report, sir, if you'd just care to-"

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Ackerman gestured towards the report. "Please sir, just-"

"No, I thought not," sighed Hollister.

The room was silent for several minutes as Hollister read through the sheaf of papers. Ackerman watched with mounting worry as the captain's face turned gradually redder.

Eventually Hollister stopped reading and turned his now almost scarlet face back towards Ackerman. Ackerman swallowed.

"Am I to understand," said the captain, with unnerving calm, "that this mission failed?"

"Umm… yes, sir," said Ackerman, very quietly.

"So that T-Rex is still out there?"

"Errr… yes, sir."

Beneath the outward signs of anger captain Hollister was feeling extremely worried. He didn't want to contemplate the amount of damage that thing could do; in fact he was still struggling to come to terms with the tragic loss of all the mint choc ice cream.

"And am I also to understand," he continued, "that an entire platoon of our best men was killed in the process?"

"Errr… I'm afraid so, sir, yes," Ackerman managed, after several attempts.

"WELL?!" Hollister shouted, trying not to think about how he'd cope if the entire supply of jam donuts was eaten as well. "What have you got to say for yourself?!"

Ackerman wringed his hands together nervously. "Well, umm…" He considered saying something, then decided that he may as well risk it on the basis that it couldn't get much worse. "…It wasn't entirely a platoon of our best men, sir, to be precise… umm…"

"Why? Who else was in there?"

"Rimmer, sir."

"Ah."

There was a long pause while Hollister considered what he'd just heard. It seemed to explain a lot.

"And… it didn't quite kill the entire platoon, sir," Ackerman ventured after a while. "There were two survivors."

"Namely?"

"The Cat, sir. And Kryten, the mechanoid."

"So they were presumably the only two witnesses to the attack?" asked Hollister, secretly wondering how Ackerman had ever hoped to succeed with the likes of those two on the team.

"Quite so, sir."

"Naturally, they'll need to be questioned about the incident-"

"I'm afraid that might prove more difficult than you think, sir," said Ackerman gravely.

"Why, what's happened to them?" There was very little sign of concern in Hollister's voice. If anything there was a hint of optimism.

"Well, the Cat's in the psychiatric wing on the hospital deck, sir. As far as we can gather the T-Rex sneezed on one of his suits and completely ruined it. The incident seems to have traumatised him quite badly, and he's gone into deep shock."

"And the mechanoid?" Hollister couldn't help thinking about how close the T-Rex had been to the crates of fairy cakes the last time he'd checked the scanner.

"He's in maintenance, sir. He's suffered severe damage to his CPU and now believes himself to be a three-legged rabbit."

Hollister covered his face with his hands and sighed. The prospect of early retirement had never seemed so inviting.

"It's quite unfortunate actually, sir, since we've no supplies of carrots left."

Hollister didn't even bother responding to that. There didn't seem to be much point.

Now that the captain seemed to have calmed down slightly, Ackerman relaxed. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, why did you ask to meet me here? That isn't standard procedure."

Hollister shuddered as he remembered what had happened to his office. "I've explained this to you before; my office is being redecorated," he lied. In truth very little had happened to his office at all, but Ackerman wasn't to know that. "Now is there anything else you want to add? I'm very busy at the moment." Actually he had very little to do at all, but Ackerman wasn't to know that either.

"Yes, sir, there is one small thing…"

"Which is…?"

"We've resurrected Arnold Rimmer as a hologram, sir."

Even the distant humming of the ship's engines seemed muted in the silence that followed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ackerman, but I must have misheard you there," said the captain, at length. "For a second I thought you said that you'd resurrected Mr. Rimmer."

"Yes sir, we have."

"As a hologram, you say."

"That's correct, sir, yes."

Hollister seemed to consider something. "Can I ask you just one small thing?"

"Of course, sir."

"_Why_?"

Ackerman hesitated, as though he wasn't quite sure himself. "Well, sir, since both of the survivors are currently indisposed, the only logical course of action was to resurrect as a hologram one of the other members of the squad, and Mr. Rimmer was the only personality we had in the databanks."

"So effectively you've brought him back to question him about his death?"

"I hadn't thought of it like that before, sir, but that's basically correct."

Hollister considered the situation before replying. "I don't like it, but it seems to be the only option we've got. In fact I've just thought of the ideal person to perform the questioning."

He leaned across the desk and pressed a button on a small, box-like machine, speaking into a grille on its front. "Would Dr. McLaren please report to my off- ARRRGH!!!" He screamed and pulled away as the machine emitted a jet of scalding water over his hand.

"I'm afraid prison staff don't have intercoms in their offices, sir," Ackerman explained meekly as Hollister blew on his red and swollen fingers. "That was the coffee machine."

-----

David Lister was dozing fitfully. Luckily he'd been too ill to be chosen for the T-Rex mission, which was possibly something to do with the curry that Bob had smuggled in through the air vents last night. Because of this he hadn't heard about the outcome of the mission, and was therefore very surprised to be woken by a hologrammatic Rimmer entering the cell.

He didn't actually realise that Rimmer was dead at first. The hologram was sat at the table with his back to the bunks, obscuring the 'H' on his forehead.

Lister swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. "Morning, Rimmer," he said resignedly.

"Shut up, Lister," Rimmer snapped. "The last thing I need now is your smegging put-downs."

Lister sat up straighter. "What's wrong, man?" he asked.

"'What's wrong?' 'What's wrong?'" Rimmer turned around. "Nothing's wrong, Lister, nothing! I'm dead, that's all! What could possibly be wrong with that?!"

Lister noticed the 'H' for the first time. For several seconds he groped desperately for something to say. "It didn't work, then?" he managed.

"Actually it all went swimmingly," said Rimmer, with deceptive calm.

"Really?" asked Lister.

"No, you stupid git, of course it didn't smegging work!!" he shouted.

"Hey, calm down, man."

"Calm down?! I'm dead, Lister! My career hopes have been completely shattered! I would've been an officer someday as well!" He sat down with his back to Lister again.

"Look, man, just-"

"Piss off."

Lister decided it wasn't worth bothering. The old Rimmer had been exactly the same when he'd died, but he'd come to terms with it eventually. Hopefully this one would too.

Just then Holly appeared on the screen. "Alright, dudes?"

"Morning, Hol," replied Lister casually. Rimmer said nothing.

"Morning, Arnold," pressed Holly. Still nothing. "What's wrong with him then?" he asked, turning his bald head to Lister.

"He's dead."

"Ah." Holly nodded knowingly. "That'd explain it, then."

"How's the four-way chess game going, Hol?" asked Lister conversationally.

"Quite well, actually, Dave. The coffee machine in Ackerman's office seems to be winning at the moment. In fact it's so focused on the game it accidentally soaked the captain in scalding water when he tried using it. The hand dryer in the men's toilets is second, then it's the CPR machine on the hospital deck, then me." He paused for a second. "So really, it isn't going that well at all."

"Will you shut up!!!!" yelled Rimmer suddenly. "I'm trying to have a good decent sulk, and all I can hear is you two drivelling on and on about complete and utter smeg!!"

"It could be worse, man," said Lister.

"What could possibly be worse?"

Lister thought carefully before answering. Thinking was not something he did often, and it took him quite a bit of effort. Eventually he said, "Well… you could be interviewed by Dr. McLaren again."

"Who?"

"He's meant to be the ship's psychiatric consultant, but actually he's one cup short of a tea set, if you see what I mean. He interviewed us all before we came in here, remember?"

Rimmer put a finger to his lips and thought for a moment. "…Is he by any chance that man who just looked at me, wrote 'loony' on his clipboard, then shouted 'next'?"

"Err… yeah, that's probably him."

"Ah."

"There's a thought…" said Holly.

Rimmer turned and looked incredulously at him. "You? Think? A senile computer that can't even add one and one? You've only got an IQ of six!"

"It's six thousand, actually, Arnold," replied the computer resentfully. "And one plus one is forty-two, any idiot knows that."

"No it isn't, it's two," explained Rimmer patiently.

"Why's that then?"

"Err…"

A smug expression came across Holly's computer-generated face. "Got you on that one, haven't I?"

"No, wait a sec; I think I know this one…"

"Give up, Rimmer," Lister advised. "You can't even tell the difference between six and… whatever that really big number that Holly just said was."

"Six thousand, Dave."

"That's it. I don't know why you ever bothered taking the astro-navigation exam."

"I _bothered_, Lister," snapped Rimmer, suddenly angry, "because I have ambition. I wanted to do something with my life, unlike you, who seem content just to sit around drinking lager and eating curries and generally just slobbing around all day. …Still, what does it matter? My hopes are shattered now. I'm dead."

Lister recalled the previous Rimmer's death and decided to try similar tactics this time.

"Look, death's not the-"

Rimmer spun around and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"This is all your fault, you stupid goit," he spat. "If you hadn't eaten that curry you'd have been on the mission with me. There'd have been more men in the squad to distract it and I'd have escaped."

"You can't blame me, Rimmer. How was I meant to know what was going to happen?"

But Rimmer wasn't listening. "You did it deliberately, didn't you? You left me to die, just to try and annoy me."

Lister was loosing patience now. "Rimmer, it was an _accident_! I'd no idea it was going to happen, OK?"

"Stop lying, Lister."

"I'm not!"

Rimmer turned and looked at him with an expression of barely disguised hatred. "Will you stop being so insensitive, Lister?! I'm dead! Don't you care?"

This was Lister's favourite type of question, namely the type that didn't require any thinking. Even so, he pretended to think for a while, just for the effect.

"No," he said at length. "Why, what made you think I did?"

For a brief moment Rimmer was lost for words. "Fine then," he snapped. "If you're going to be like that I may as well just leave." He turned and walked out of the door, mumbling "I don't know why I even bother sometimes…"

"Smeghead," said Lister to himself as the door slid shut.

"I heard that!" came the reply from along the corridor.

-----

Captain Hollister stared intently at the door to his office. It just stood there looking innocent, the buttons on the keypad lit up invitingly.

Why, _why_ had he been so stupid as to let it happen? If only he'd known…

But they'd been very insistent, not to mention persuasive. _Your breakfast will never be the same again_, they'd said. Well, at least they'd got that bit right.

Still sucking his burned fingers, Hollister turned his gaze to the green 'open' button on the keypad, trying to work up the courage to press it. He had to at some point, he knew that. But _it_ was waiting on the other side…

…And so was the intercom, the intercom he needed to summon McLaren to interview Rimmer to find out about the T-Rex and get rid of it. The T-Rex that was roaming the cargo decks, the T-Rex that even now could be eating its way through the supplies of cheeseburgers, the trays of Cadbury's chocolate, the boxes of fairy cakes…

He made up his mind. He had to do it, for the fairy cakes if nothing else.

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and pressed the button. The door slid open. Hopefully it wouldn't notice him, hopefully it might be asleep or something…

"Howdly-doodly-do!!"

_Oh God._

"Hey there! Talkie's the name, toasting's the game!" The voice came from a small box on the captain's desk. It was ridiculously chirpy to the point of being ridiculously irritating.

"Shut up," snapped Hollister, glaring at it.

"Would you like some toast?"

"The T-Rex ate all the bread, you idiot! There's nothing left for you to toast!" lied the captain.

"But that's just cruel!" whined the toaster. "Why am I even installed here if there's no bread?"

"Just shut up."

"But-"

"SHUT UP!"

The toaster remained silent, but somehow contrived to look affronted. Hollister moved round the desk to the intercom, keeping his eyes fixed on the small appliance as though afraid it would move. It didn't.

Hollister pressed a button on the intercom and spoke. "Could Dr. McLaren report to my office immediately, please." Then, deciding he needed something to relax him, he removed a bag of liquorice allsorts from a drawer and settled down in his chair to eat them.

"Would you like those toasted, captain?" came a small voice after a while.

The captain looked incredulous. "What, toast _liquorice_? You'd ruin it!"

"Yes, but… since there's no bread left, I thought I might try experimenting with other things."

"Will you please just shut up?" said the captain in exasperation.

"Oh, all right then," said the toaster resignedly. "But before I do, captain, can I ask you just one thing?"

"All right then, if you absolutely must."

"Would you like some toast?"

"I've already told you, that damned T-Rex ate all the bread!"

"Well…yes," said the toaster meekly. "I just thought you might've got some more since then."

"We're three million light years into deep space! How can you expect us to find any bread out here?!" Hollister snapped. "Why did I ever let them install you in here?"

"Because you're-"

"Shut up."

It did, but only for a few minutes.

"Well, if there's no bread left at all, I shall have to find something else to work with," It said. "Like cheese, maybe, or chocolate, or maybe even ice cream-"

Hollister slammed his fist down on the toaster so hard that the whole desk vibrated. That remark had hit a nerve with the captain, what with the loss of all the ice cream still fresh in his memory.

"Have I said something wrong?"

Hollister hit it again, if only to relieve some of his stress.

"Hey, this is cruelty to toast-"

He hit it yet again. It stayed silent this time.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP!!!" Hollister screamed at it. "I DON'T WANT ANY OF YOUR DAMN TOAST, I DON'T WANT-"

Unfortunately Dr. McLaren chose this precise moment to enter the office.

"I DON'T WANT MY LIQUORICE TOASTING EITHER, YOU STUPID- oh…" said Hollister, as he looked up and noticed his visitor. For a second he struggled to think of anything to say. "Umm… Please, sit down, doctor," he managed eventually.

McLaren stayed standing near the door. He looked nervous. "Err… are you alright, captain?" he stammered.

"Yes doctor, I'm fine, thank you," replied the captain dryly. "I was just shouting at my toaster here to let off a bit of steam."

"And, umm… why, exactly?"

"Because it wouldn't stop talking to me."

McLaren's expression froze. He looked as though he was fighting the urge to walk slowly and calmly to the door, and as a matter of fact this was precisely what he was doing.

"Oh… well… umm… yes, errr… lovely, lovely," he managed.

"Are you alright, doctor?" asked Hollister.

"Oh, errr… yes, I'm fine, thanks," he replied, in a tone of voice that suggested it wasn't him the captain should be worrying about.

"Are you sure you won't sit down?"

"Quite sure, yes." The expression on McLaren's face was one of thinly disguised fear.

"As you wish. Now, I'd like to talk to you about-"

"It's OK sir, I quite understand. You're just suffering from a little stress, that's all," said McLaren in his most soothing voice. "You can come down to my medical bay for a little chat if you like, you know, discuss what's on your mind. I always find that most people think it's very helpful. And none of the equipment talks down there, so you're quite safe. At least it hasn't been talking to me since my doctor gave me these new pills. They're very good, by the way, I'd recommend them, and, errr… it's… umm…" He faltered under Hollister's gaze.

"Finished?" said the captain sternly.

"That's not what you want to talk about, is it?" he replied meekly.

"No," said Hollister, in that quiet and extremely calm manner only achievable by someone who is extremely irritated by something and is consequently very, very angry. "Now sit down."

McLaren knew better than to argue.

"Now, I'd like to talk to you about Rimmer," said the captain, with the air of one trying greatly to retain their self-control.

"You mean you summoned me here to discuss lavatory disinfectant?" said McLaren apprehensively.

Hollister sighed. "No. He's one of the prisoners here. You interviewed him once. I believe your verdict was 'wacko' or something similar."

"What...? Oh, yes, him!"

"Now then, this next bit is classified, understand?"

McLaren nodded, and leaned across the desk to listen closer.

"Good. Now, not many people know this, but at this very moment we have a baby T-Rex running around the cargo decks."

McLaren froze again. Then he started trying to push his chair backwards as discreetly as possible. "Oh, errr… lovely, lovely," he said, glancing at the captain suspiciously. He noticed Hollister's almost spherical stomach, tried to estimate his chest size, then wondered if they made straitjackets large enough. He doubted it.

"The point is that Mr. Rimmer was killed by this T-Rex only this morning," continued Hollister. "I'd like you to go and talk to him, see how he's coping with his death, and try and offer some advice and support."

"Oh, I see. Is that all?" said McLaren, then stopped. He had suddenly realised that the captain had just told him to go and talk to dead people. _Oh dear,_ he thought. _The stress of being captain must really be getting to him. Even I'm not that bad, even when I forget my pills._

"Is something wrong?"

"What?!" McLaren jumped. "What..? Oh, errr… nothing. I'm fine. Nothing's wrong at all. Everything's, errr… lovely, in fact. Yes."

"Good. I'll just fetch the file then." He got up and walked to the storeroom.

McLaren breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut. He was alone now. He smiled at the toaster, safe in the knowledge that it was just a harmless electrical appliance, and took the opportunity to drag his chair several inches further away from the desk.

He'd once been as mad as Hollister was now, he reflected. Then he'd seen a doctor, who'd prescribed him these lovely little pills. They were working, too. He hadn't seen any dinosaurs, he wasn't talking to dead people, he didn't need electric shock therapy any more, and now he only got the urge to wear women's clothing twice a week. People had even stopped calling him 'loony'. But best of all, the toaster definitely wasn't talking to him.

"Would you like some toast?"

"ARRGH!!" McLaren jumped out of the chair as though electrocuted. His breathing became sharp and shallow and he started sweating. He stared at the toaster as though afraid it might leap up and bite his head off if he didn't stop watching it.

"Hey, what's wrong? I only asked you if you wanted any toast."

"Are you… t-talking to m-me?" McLaren stuttered.

"Of course I am. Who else is there to talk to, bozo?"

"Oh, I see… well, that's, umm… lovely. Yes."

"Hey, would you like some toast or not?"

"I think I will, please, yes," McLaren smiled pleasantly. It was the sort of smile that would have got him locked in a small, padded room had anyone seen it. He reasoned that he may as well go along with the toaster for the time being. That way it might not attack him.

The toaster was silent for several seconds, during which it seemed to be thinking deeply. McLaren could hear its processors whirring inside it.

Eventually it said, "I'm sorry, but did you say 'yes'?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You mean you actually want some toast?"

"Yes, I actually want some toast!" So it wasn't just a talking toaster; it was a deaf, senile talking toaster as well, McLaren decided.

It still didn't quite seem to believe him.

"…really?" it asked again, in the sort of voice that suggested that if it had had eyes, then they would have been shining with barely held back tears of joy.

"Yes," he replied, as Hollister returned with the file. Since it lacked any facial features, McLaren couldn't quite make out why it looked so overjoyed; somehow it just did.

"Here's the file, doctor," said Hollister, handing it over. "Oh, and by the way, can you ask him what he knows about the T-Rex? Any info he has could come in useful."

"Will do, captain."

"Very well. Dismissed."

McLaren breathed a huge sigh of relief as he left the office. He could have sworn the toaster watched him go.

-----

"Hang on a sec, Hol," said Lister abruptly. "You said you'd thought of something a while back."

"Yes Dave, I did. Why, what of it?"

"Well… what was it, exactly?"

Holly looked confused. "Oh, it was, umm… hang on a sec…"

"You're a complete idiot, Holly, do you realise that?" said Rimmer, who had returned from a very brief sulk having failed to find anywhere quiet enough.

"I've told you before, Arnold. I have an IQ of six thousand."

"Well why can't you even remember what you've just said?"

"Why, what did I just say then?"

Rimmer sighed. "You were trying to remember what it was you'd said you'd remembered five minutes ago!"

"Oh, yes, that. It was, umm… you know what, I've forgotten."

"I thought you had an IQ of six thousand, Hol?" asked Lister.

"I have, Dave. But I've got to handle that much data that I'm bound to forget the odd little thing…"

There was a knock on the door and a black-suited guard entered.

"Message for Mr. Rimmer," he said. "Apparently he has to attend an interview with Dr. McLaren immediately."

"What, now?" asked Rimmer.

"Yes, sir. A psychiatric analysis is standard procedure following a hologrammatic resurrection. It won't take long, sir."

"Oh, _that's_ it!" exclaimed Holly. "I've remembered. Rimmer, you'll probably have to have a psychiatric analysis soon. It's standard procedure following a hologrammatic resurrection."

Rimmer covered his face with his hands and shook his head sadly. "You really are a complete and total goit, Holly."

"I'm a what?"

"You heard."

"If you'd just like to come along, sir…"

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" he snapped. "Dr. I-have-an-invisible-pet-purple-aardvark can't be kept waiting forever, can he?"

"Best of luck, man," smirked Lister. "Oh, and some advice from me; make sure the chairs are screwed down."

"Smeg off, Lister," Rimmer shouted back as he was led away down the corridor.


End file.
